Broke Down House

There is something red on the lawn.

 It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

 In the ash, the grey, the burnt lace, the glitter. Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Hollows like eyes. In the ash, the grey, the burnt lace, the glitter. Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Your breath catches. Hollows like eyes. In the ash, the grey, the burnt lace, the glitter. Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Blood leaks out. Your breath catches. Hollows like eyes. In the ash, the grey, the burnt lace, the glitter. Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

From the dark, over burnt and broken wood, parched soil, dead leaves, ugly nettles, a cold grasp like wet cloth. Blood leaks out. Your breath catches. Hollows like eyes. In the ash, the grey, the burnt lace, the glitter. Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

Black blood oozes into cracked soil. From the dark, over burnt and broken wood, parched soil, dead leaves, ugly nettles, a cold grasp like wet cloth. Blood leaks out. Your breath catches. Hollows like eyes. In the ash, the grey, the burnt lace, the glitter. Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.

There is something red on the lawn. Black blood oozes into cracked soil. From the dark, over burnt and broken wood, parched soil, dead leaves, ugly nettles, a cold grasp like wet cloth. Blood leaks out. Your breath catches. Hollows like eyes. In the ash, the grey, the burnt lace, the glitter. Dark turns. Ashes drift, hesitant, a cold exhalation from the maw of broke, scorched, tumbledown boards. A cloud encroaches. Glass scattered, aglitter, stars on night’s shore. Dust white in the gloom on wrenched stairs. The doors askew, jagged on broken hinges. The cicadas silent. Shadows. Behind rotted vines, through cracked panes, grey lace made white a moment in the failing sun of the still evening. The porch rail juts in disarray, splayed like finger bones. The yard is an expanse of hard baked earth. The grass dried to yellow. A little green showing through. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.